The Haunting of Harriet (30 page)

The twins became engrossed in pizzas and adventure on the high seas alongside Ishmael, tattooed natives, an obsessed peg-legged captain and the great white whale, while Edward and Liz, enjoying the peace and quiet, lit a fire. So much for summer! What light there was outside was fading fast. The long windows shook as the wind blew in from the lake. Liz drew the curtains and settled beside Edward, snuggling close as the strains of soft music floated over her.

Suddenly she sat up. “Listen, Ed.”

He turned the music down. “I can’t hear anything.”

“Exactly: there’s no sound from the kids.” She crossed to the windows and drew back the drapes, cupping her hands against the glass to peer out into the dark. “Ed, did you leave the light on in the boathouse?”

“Not guilty. Maybe the kids are down there.”

Before he had finished speaking Liz was out of the door. She ran slithering and slipping across the sodden grass. She kicked off her shoes and sprinted over the lawn, swearing at the darkness that hindered her speed. The mud splattered and stuck to her stockinged feet and legs.

“Hang on. You’ll need a torch!” Edward yelled after her. “Bloody kids. I bet they’re still upstairs in the warm.”

But Liz did not hear him. She had seen the black rider, felt the hot rank breath from his stallion’s wide nostrils as the great head shook and snorted against the night storm. His armour was sounding a death rattle in her ears as that piercing gaze from eyeless sockets held her mesmerized. The black cloak turned and beckoned. The cards had tricked her.

Upstairs the children had been slumped on cushions watching the movie. James was glued to the screen, but Jenny was bored. She pestered him relentlessly as only a sibling can. The remote control was her main weapon and having taken possession of it she proceeded to stop and start the disc at will. When finally the screen froze and adamantly refused to budge, tempers snapped. James jumped up with full force hit his sister around the head. They both froze. They had scrapped many times before. They had pulled faces at each other and name-calling was commonplace, especially in the attic, their adult-free zone. But violence, until this moment, was unknown. Jenny rubbed the side of her face. The blow had left a bright red blotch on her cheek. Refusing to cry, she shouted, “That bloody hurt!” and looked accusingly at her brother.

“Don’t swear, Jenny,” James taunted, using a particularly patronizing tone. “You deserved a good thump. You ruined my film. Just at the bit where…” He must have seen
Moby Dick
a hundred times. His well-thumbed copy of the book was dog-eared from page-turning.

“Where they catch the stupid old whale!” she taunted back.

“They don’t catch him, Stupido, that’s the point! He is Captain Ahab’s nemi… nema…”

“Nemesis,” she said impatiently. “Now who’s
stupido
?” Jenny stood with hands on hips. Her jaw was set and her body language left no room for doubt. “You bloody hit me, Apeface!”

That was it. Within seconds they became one rolling, kicking, shrieking mass, eventually dissolving into a hysterical ball of laughter. One of them wriggled free and cried, “Let’s go and catch a real whale!” It was James. Grabbing a handful of felt pens he set about tattooing himself. “I’m Queequeg; where can I get a harpoon? I need one to shoot that pesky whale.”

While he hunted for a suitable weapon Jenny scrambled in his wake, busy with more pens, transforming him into a wild Polynesian whaler. Soon every inch of his face was covered with weird and wonderful symbols. In the general fracas no one had noticed that the baby alarm had been pulled from its socket.

Within minutes James had engineered a functional weapon from a water cannon, adapted to fire a pen. It flew a meagre six inches on its maiden flight but after a minor adjustment or two the pen shot across the room with a terrifying force, embedding itself in a bean bag. Moby Dick’s days were numbered. Meanwhile Jenny was attempting to turn the table upside-down.

“What are you doing?” asked James rather disparagingly.

“This is the
Pequod
and I’m Captain Ahab. Hoist the flag and climb aboard, Queequeg.”

“Excuse me, Captain, but this is a crap boat. Why don’t we use the
Olly Ro
? She’s as fine a vessel as ever went a-whaling,”

The idea filled the room with the smell of adventure. James waved the harpoon above his head and marched towards the door, only to find Jenny barring the way. She stood holding on to the doorframe, her legs spread wide. “We can’t, James. Mummy would be furious.”

“Remove yourself, scurvy scum! You might be captain but you’re a lily-livered coward.”

Jenny hesitated. She knew exactly what she should do, but to tell tales seemed so awful. She could not stop him now, not on her own. Someone responsible had to go with him. Anyway they knew how to handle the boat, so what could possibly go wrong?

“OK, I’m in if we wear our life-jackets.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He was already busy far out at sea, battling the storms and tempests as they searched for the great white whale. As they crept down the backstairs James muttered to himself,

“I’ve seen that film a hundred times and I’ve never seen anyone in a stupid yellow jacket!”

They jumped down, missing the last creaky step, and crept on through the kitchen and breakfast-room on tiptoe. They could hear the CD playing on the other side of the tall lounge doors. By the back door James grabbed a broomstick, to which he tied the flag.

“We’re whalers, not bloody pirates!” snapped Jenny. Then as her brother’s face crumpled she added: “I suppose it’s better than nothing. Bring it along and don’t cry, your tattoos will run.”

They carried their waterproofs and Wellingtons to the jetty before donning them, for fear of alerting their parents, so by the time they reached the water they were already soaked to the skin. Jenny climbed into hers and watched as rain dripped off the end of her brother’s nose. She knew this was all wrong. Twice she thought she heard her mother call to them to come back, but she ignored it and when James exclaimed, “Isn’t this the best night ever?” she had to agree. He was shouting, but his voice became a tiny whisper, made even smaller by the howls of the wind.

The night was wild. The wind blew from the East, cold and cruel. Their oilskins flapped, refusing to be buttoned until they hunched their backs against the gale. Sou’westers had to be strapped on; even then the wind lifted them from beneath their broad brims and tugged at the chin straps. James pulled the craft alongside and held her fast for his captain to board. It took all his strength and, for a moment, he thought of calling an end to the adventure. But it was too late. He could not be made to look cowardly in front of a girl. Ahab climbed in behind him and took the oars. Queequeg stood in the centre of the
Pequod
holding the broomstick as his mast. The pirate flag clung on with grim determination as the gale, equally resolute, tried to steal it. His legs worked hard to maintain his balance as the boat lurched and rolled in the swell. At last he was forced to sit and hold fast to the gunwale, annoyed at himself for giving in.

Ahab pulled on the oars, being the strongest rower, and with skill and determination the dingy was manoeuvred away from the jetty and deftly turned, heading straight out to “sea”. Another quarter-turn and the
Pequod
headed into the wind, set fair to pursue her quarry. The rain stung the two small faces. Even when they turned away it continued to lash them raw. The storm was relentless. It was time to abandon the game. Jenny tried to point the vessel homeward, but it refused to obey. Her arms were tired and she could not turn it. The boat was no longer under her control. As the horror of the situation dawned, Queequeg stood up in the bow, defying the elements and oblivious to the danger. He clung to the broomstick mast and pointed into the wind. “There she blows!” he yelled. His voice was lost in the wind that buffeted and battered them.

Without warning, he let go of the mast and aimed his harpoon at his prey. He fired. The missile shot forward just as a mighty crash of thunder filled the crew’s ears and drowned out his cry. Seconds later jagged bolts of lightning lit the screen. Queequeg had gone.

The blackness stretched out and down, above and below, surrounding and consuming everything in a conspiracy between the night and the water. Jenny could see nothing but black.

“Oh, God. Oh, Christ, where are you? I can’t see you?” Jenny was peering over the side, willing the dark waters to part and let her see her brother. What moon there was remained obscured by storm cloud. The lightning struck once more then it, too, put out the lights on the lake. Jenny was tearing at her boots and coat. “James? Hold on, James!” No reply. The blood drained to her feet, turning them to lead. Her head was light and empty. In her stomach a heavy mass was heaving ready to be spewed out into the blackness. She continued tugging until she was finally free of her boots, all the while yelling: “I’m coming James. I’m coming!”

Then she too had gone over the side into the pitch-black liquid. It was colder than death. She thought nothing could be colder than her own blood when she realized James had gone. Rising to the surface, she gulped in air, choking and spluttering on the mud and water she had swallowed. What should she do? There was no one to ask, no time to think. Then from the far side of the boathouse someone was calling her name.

“Jenny, can you hear me?” It was Harriet. In her hand she held a long wooden boat hook, which she aimed towards Jenny. “Grab the pole. I can see him. He’s caught in the reeds on this side. I’ll guide the pole to him. Swim down holding the pole and put the hook through his coat. Can you do that, Jenny?” Her calm voice steadied Jenny’s erratic heartbeat.

Jenny took a long, deep breath. Feeling her way down the length of the pole she did as her friend said. Down she went into the inky blackness. She reached the end of the pole and felt the slimy water and reeds swirling silently around her. As she frantically searched for James, the only sound was her heart banging against her ribs. The air in her lungs was used up; she was desperate to breathe. She willed herself to stay below where the waters were horribly quiet and her brother was drowning. At last she felt his hair, his strong dark hair. Her lungs were bursting and her ears hurt with the pressure of the water and the blood pumping through her body.

He was held fast in the tangle of weeds. Her fingers felt down to where his coat was and grabbed at it. Thrusting the metal hook in through his collar and back out through the hem, she secured his body to the pole. Then, turning her own body around, she grabbed at her brother, wrapping her legs around him. If she did not save him she was prepared to drown with him. Her legs gripped tightly, so cold that she could hardly feel them. Her head was bursting and her lungs were empty, almost useless. Head-first she dragged herself up the boat hook, hand-over-hand climbing a wooden rope. Her fingers were numbed by the cold and she had no sensation in her legs. Was James still attached? She dared not let go of the pole to check. In a final burst of determination she pulled hard on her life line. Her fingers were slipping but the notches on the end of the shaft gave her purchase.

Harriet felt the tug and heaved at the pole until she could see Jenny. Leaning flat on the decking she reached into the lake and grabbed at the child’s sodden sweater, hoisting the girl onto the walkway. Then she stood tall and called on all her strength to pull the pole out of the water. Jenny was gasping, her lungs burned and her head was pounding. She watched as Harriet tried to lift James. He was in the water face-down and too heavy for Harriet to pull ashore. The
Olly Ro
had been swept back towards the jetty and lay tossing freely between her brother and safety. By the meagre light from the boathouse Jenny could see him bobbing on the surface on the far side of the boat. She filled her painful lungs and dived in again, down under the boat, feeling her way beneath the keel until she burst through the surface to gulp in the cold night air. Cupping his chin in her hand she swam with his head held above the waves until they reached the bank. Jenny pushed him onto the grass, where he lay motionless in the dark. He was alive, but only just.

As she breathed, hot needles stabbed her chest, causing her body to shudder and heave. She was sure she was dying. It was all right to be dying. To lie down here beside her twin and let go would be almost a pleasure. The thread between life and death was very fine.

“Jenny.” The deep voice was commanding. Harriet stood beside her. She knew the thread was fine, but she also knew it to be strong.

“Come on, my dear. You know what to do.” The assertive tone prompted the girl into action. She positioned James flat on his back, tilted his head and opened his mouth, clearing it with her numb fingers. She listened to his chest. There was no sound. She took a deep breath as though about to sing, held his nose and pushed her own agonized breath into his lifeless body. The pain did not matter now. She would happily continue to breathe for him for ever if it meant he could live. Then he coughed loudly, spewing out a mixture of mud, bile and water. Jenny turned him on his side and lay down beside him, holding him while rocking him to and fro. The will to live had returned and she was daring him not to give up.

From the bridge, Liz could make out shadowy forms by the boathouse. A knife cut through her as she saw her two children and from her throat she let loose a howl that reached the gates of Heaven and the doors of Hell: a prayer and a curse that only a mother’s agony could produce. As she reached them, she sank to her knees and Jenny finally let go and passed out.

B
y the time the ambulance arrived, Edward had got his family back to the house. Liz sat by the Aga, silently rocking James, both of them wrapped in the duvet that Edward had thrown around them. James was like a statue, his eyes fixed and unblinking. Apart from an involuntary shudder occasionally racking his being, he was motionless and mute. His father kept one arm tightly around his wife and son while the other held the limp unconscious body of his daughter. All four of them huddled together by the stove as the steamy air filled the room with an unnatural silence. Edward was listening hard to this silence until he realized it was being broken by a voice. It was his voice. For the first time in his life he was praying.